


Case 43: The Adventure Of The Last Rebel (1886)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [57]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, American Civil War, Assassination, Childbirth, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, London, M/M, United States, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 13:42:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16577603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: ֍ Twenty-one years after the American Civil War has ended there is a potentially deadly coda in England and Sherlock is asked to keep something (else) from Watson - by his brother Bacchus of all people!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princessgolux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessgolux/gifts).



_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

I do not normally consider myself either lucky or unlucky, except perhaps for being blessed with Watson in my life. So when Henriksen told me that my friend had discovered about my funding the local Boys' Home I thought it an annoyance but little more. 

I had miscalculated, and badly. Our relationship was definitely strained in the days after his discovery and I suppose that I really should have seen why. It was my half-brother Campbell who eventually put me right when he called round for the first time since my return.

“Balin and Balan said that the good doctor was off when he treated them this morning”, he said. “Is something wrong?”

I told him what had happened. He knew of course about the Boys' Home and to my surprise shook his head at me in disapproval.

“It is all about trust”, he explained, “like back at the house. Gentlemen have to know that they can trust us absolutely and that we would never use our knowledge of their 'preferences' against them, or worse sell it on for profit. If that trust were ever lost we would be just another molly-house.”

I knew how true that was. Considering the sordid nature of his business it was spoken of highly by everyone who knew of it.

“So?” I said. He looked sharply at me.

“Poor Watson has been without you for three whole years”, he said. “You never told him the real reasons for your departure, you acceded to a request from one of the most unpleasant men in London – and in my line of work I know a hell of a lot who fit into that category! - not to see him upon your return until a case was resolved. And now he has found you are keeping something else from him. Of course he will wonder what else is waiting to emerge and shatter his new-found happiness.”

I stared at him uncertainly.

“He is happy?” I asked. 

“You do emotions like he does feelings!” Campbell smiled. “He saw Colt the other week – do not worry; he had cleared it with Tom to drop by for a chat and nothing else - and he said that he was smiling all the time. Yes he is happy or at least was until he fond out you were keeping things from him – and you are treating him very badly.”

I felt reproved, a feeling made worse by the certain if annoying knowledge that he was right.

“What can I do?” I asked anxiously.

“Very little”, he said. “You have damaged his trust and that sort of thing takes a _long_ time to repair. You must be as honest with him as possible in future or you may even lose his friendship.”

I stared at him in horror.

“That”, I said firmly, “I will _never_ allow to happen!”

Unfortunately events were already in train that would lead to me being asked to keep something else from my friend. And by the most unlikely person imaginable!

֍

Very unusually, a few days later Watson was called upon to travel to see a client in the resort of Cromer, Nordolk, just along the coast from Mundesley-on-Sea where we had helped Mr. Sherrinford Holmes find his true love in Mr. Victor Trevor. The two of them were now back in Norfolk and, my namesake's last telegram had assured us, he was happy and intensely sore! Watson's visit was concerning a friend of the McConnaugheys whose philanthropy largely funded the Bloomsbury Practice, although I had put in place certain arrangements that if for some reason they withdrew then certain other sources would ensure that my friend kept his job. My friend's patient was expecting her first child and in his own words was 'almost as much of a feather-head as her husband so Lord help the poor child'. He was to spend the last three weeks of the pregnancy there, longer if necessary, and I must say that we shook hands and embraced each other in a most professional and manly-like manner when I saw him off at Liverpool Street Station. 

The fact that we did it for so long that the guard blew his whistle and Watson had to clamber into a moving carriage was just one of those things. And the look he gave me as the train pulled out – I damn well nearly ran after him!

I spent a mournful first few days of my friend's absence but cheered up considerably on the Friday when he said that the new arrival had decided to cut short his parents' haverings and was a healthy baby boy. Watson would be staying with the parents over the weekend and then returning to me on the Monday. I was very pleased with the world just then.

And as if to prove that when good things happened bad ones were hurrying up after them, barely ten minutes later saw a most unwelcome arrival to my door. A certain lounge-lizard of a brother whose only redeeming factor was that Mother had been Annoyed at his recent interference in my friendship to Watson and a metal ruler had most fortuitously been within her reach (I knew that my father had one of those and I did wonder.....). Bacchus would be watching his step - and where he sat down! - for some little time I hoped.

“We have a rather delicate little problem”, he said, “and I need your help on it.”

“I am not a government functionary for you to command as and when suits you”, I said coolly. “What, pray, is this 'rather delicate little problem'?”

He clearly picked up on my unwelcome tone but chose to ignore it. No surprise there.

“Twenty-one years ago as you know the Americans stopped fighting each other when the Southern states were defeated”, he said. “The victory was absolute which is rare in diplomatic circles. And some of the rebels fled abroad, including one who came here.”

“You are not saying that the United States government seriously considers such a fellow a danger this far on in time?” I asked incredulously. “What harm could one man do?”

“Not so much to them as to us”, Bacchus said. “Relations across the Great Water remain strained especially as the British government turned a blind eye to the building of Southern ships during the war even if we did pay reparations afterwards. The current president Mr. Grover Cleveland is peaceable enough and relations with him are good but there are many in his administration who would like to sir up trouble between our nations for their own ends.”

“And they see this last rebel as their opportunity so to do”, I said, sighing at the vapidity of human nature. “Who is the fellow?”

I like to think that my abilities such as they are were why I spotted that most infinitesimal of pauses before my brother answered. My suspicions of him only increased (and they had been pretty high to start with).

“His name appropriately enough is Robert Lee”, he said. “No relation to the general, not even ex-army as far as we can tell but a firm believer in 'Dixie' as he calls it. He flies the Southern flag at his house in Smitham, Surrey, which his American neighbour across the road finds most offensive.”

“If he finds a piece of cloth offensive then he is in the wrong country”, I said frostily. “Feel free to remind him that other destinations _are_ available. What further heinous and terrible crimes has this Mr. Lee committed, pray? Has he taken to feeding the local ducks oversized pieces of bread perhaps, or worn some item of clothing that has given his oversensitive neighbour an attack of the vapours?”

Bacchus scowled at my witticisms.

“He has links to at least one Irish terrorist grouping”, he said, “and there may be more. I would like you to go down and investigate him further.”

“I cannot leave the capital just now”, I said. “Watson will be home on Monday.”

“Oh yes”, he sneered. “Got to wait for the good wifey!”

I gave him a long look then stood up and crossed to my desk. Reaching over, I removed my 'angel sword' from the support that Watson had brought for it some years back and turned back to face my brother, who had gone rather pale.

“You will write the address of this Mr. Lee on the notepad”, I said coldly, “and then you will leave.”

“You cannot seriously be thinking of bringing _him_ in on this case!” Bacchus protested. “It is a matter of national security!”

“I would trust Watson with my life”, I said firmly. “I would not trust _you_ with tuppence to do some shopping! Now you have one minute before I decide to put in some practice with this _very_ sharp weapon.”

He wrote something quickly on the notepad and moved smartly from the room. Which was his first wise decision of the day.

֍

The more I thought about it, the stranger Bacchus' decision to bring me in on this case seemed. I could probably find out all sorts of things about this fellow but I doubted that any of them would be enough to have him deported – judges were temperamental over such things, I knew - and the British government was (as always) in enough of a mess elsewhere to not want to worry about such trivialities. Yet Bacchus did not do trivial things. It was all very odd, and I did not like odd.

I decided to send round to Miss Charlotta Bradbury to see if she knew anything of the fellow, or might find something out for me. She proved as efficient as always; a short report arrived just after eight that evening. Mr. Lee had been a financial supporter of the Confederacy during the war but had been too old and/or ill to actually do any fighting, and was indeed not in the best of health even now. He had no links to Irish terrorism as Bacchus had claimed although he had been approached for funds by one Hibernian grouping as his great-grandmother had been Irish. He had refused and nothing more had been heard from them, another example of my brother being economical with the truth.

One interesting fact that did emerge however was that the American government had made some effort to seize his assets shortly before he had left to come to England, but he had outwitted them. Knowing that the United States surely had its own Bacchuses who would not take such a defeat well, I did not like that at all.

I slept little that night and by Saturday morning I had come to a decision. At an unconscionably early hour of the morning – I was somehow able to function when inspired by Watson and bless dear Mrs. Harvelle for somehow having a bacon breakfast ready for me! – I went first to see Mr. Gregor Khrushnic hoping to catch him at his new house not far from us in Mayfair. He had recently married and now had two sons of his own, and despite the ungodly hour was pleased to see me although even he was surprised at my request.

“I normally have three people who I could suggest for such a task”, he said, “but I know that one is up in Scotland right now and a second is about to get married. But I shall approach the third and I am sure that she will make herself available. She is the best of them, as well.”

“Thank you”, I said.

֍

Next I proceeded to Liverpool Street Station to catch the first express of the day. I was fortunate in that this train went to Norwich, my next port of call, and that there were frequent trains from that town to Cromer. The Great Eastern Railway did not let me down and my train pulled into Thorpe Station right on time. The local hospital was like Mr. Khrushnic rather surprised at what I was asking but as usual enough sovereigns in the right pockets worked wonders. Money may not buy happiness but it most definitely rents some swift co-operation.

I left Norwich with a companion and we made the Cromer Express which pulled into the quiet little seaside resort not long after. I was again lucky that Watson's assignment was at a house quite close to the station but we still took a cab as I did not wish to waste a moment. If we were quick we could catch a faster train back.

We arrived at _'Strand House'_ which was a fairly nondescript large property on the seafront and were duly admitted. Watson was up with the new mother just then so I asked to see the father who, I have to say, was as much of a ditherer as my friend had claimed. His name was Mr. Ivo Blatherwycke and frankly he looked it!

“This is most irregular, Mr. Holmes”, he said plaintively. “My dear wife is only just recovered from a most traumatic birth and you wish to remove her doctor?”

Hardly traumatic I thought, as Watson had told me that it had been incredibly quick. And that the man before me had fainted. Twice.

“I would not ask had I not been asked to investigate a Case of The Greatest National Importance”, I said. “And critically, one which requires a high degree of medical knowledge from someone who is absolutely trustworthy. It concerns a relative of our dear Queen herself who.... I must be discreet but Her Majesty would _not_ be amused if I failed to resolve the matter for want of my trusted colleague.”

I could see he was about to start wittering again and carried on quickly.

“And since the government is fully funding all expenses in this case”, I said, “I made a point of demanding only the best for your good lady wife if I am to deprive her of my friend Doctor Watson. Doctor Kent here is _renowned_ in the field of post-pregnancy care and has attended everything up to and including royalty, so I insisted that if you agreed to release my friend then they must pay full four weeks of his attendance on Mrs. Blatherwycke.”

He softened at that. The mention of royalty was a stretch but it often did the trick with recalcitrant clients. It was Her Majesty's government after all.

“I suppose so”, he said. “I will send your friend down to you.”

֍


	2. Chapter 2

Watson was delighted to see me and once we were on the train back to London I filled him in on the case.

“Is there something medically wrong with this Southern gentleman?” he asked. I knew he had mixed feelings about the American Civil War; like me he was strongly against slavery but he also believed in the right of self-determination for people which had clearly been ignored by the North.

“He is in poor health although that is not surprising given his age”, I said, “but unless we act he will almost certainly be dead by Monday.”

He looked at me in shock.

“How can you know that?” he asked.

“Because I know the way that governments work”, I said sadly, “and worse, I know the likes of my brother Bacchus. He sees this Mr. Lee as a nuisance that has to be removed. Permanently.”

“He will have him killed?” Watson asked, clearly shocked.

“He is smarter than that”, I said. “By bringing me in on the case he will have been seen to have made his best efforts to have kept Mr. Lee alive, and it will just be unfortunate that when we go to Smitham on Monday someone will have murdered the fellow only hours before our arrival.”

He looked at me shrewdly. I was not sure whether his picking up on at least some of my abilities was a good thing or not, especially when he could read me like that.

“I would wager the lounge-lizard asked that you _not_ bring me in on this?” he asked. I nodded.

“He knows that since I will not act without youI cannot therefore be in Surrey before Monday”, I said. “I am sure that he has used his contacts across the Great Water to inform the American authorities of that, and has suggested that if one of their agents in England were to visit Mr. Lee shortly before my arrival and murder him, the British government would somehow 'fail' to subsequently find them.”

He was shocked by this. I really wished that I had been too, but then I knew my brother.

“Will not Bacchus know of my early return to London?” he asked at last. I grinned.

“You are not going to London”, I said. “You are going to Surrey!”

֍

What with having to go all the way to Norfolk and then to suburban Surrey, it was late indeed when I got back to Baker Street. Mrs. Harvelle informed me that a lady had called and left her card and would wait on me any time the next day. I smiled to myself when her daughter mentioned that the visitor was 'one of the scariest ladies that she had ever seen', which description made her mother frown at her. 

The girl was more right than she could have known. Despite looking every inch the typical Victorian nanny, Mrs. Thomasina Kyndley was one of the most efficient assassins in London Town.

֍

Two days later I met Bacchus at Victoria Station for the train down to Smitham. He was clearly surprised when I turned up alone.

“No Watson?” he asked.

“His patient had an early delivery”, I said, “and he decided to use some of his extra time off to visit a friend of his in Brighton. I sent him the address and he has said he will travel up to meet us at the house. He should be there about the same time as us.”

As I had known it would that news gave my brother some alarm although he hid it fairly well, and he slipped away in the station to send a telegram doubtless warning that there might be someone at the house earlier than expected. We took the train down to Smitham and then a cab to _'Dixie House'_ which lay on the edge of the rather attractive village. I noted the huge American flag outside the house across and a little way down; presumably that was the overly sensitive neighbour who was not disturbed by _some_ coloured pieces of cloth.

“I do not see your friend anywhere”, Bacchus complained.

“He may be in the house already”, I said. “I told him not to wait for us.”

My brother looked even paler, although not as pale as about five seconds later when two shots rang out from the house before us. 

“Watson!” I yelled, sprinting up to the place. 

“Come back, Sher!” Bacchus yelled. “The shooter is still in there!”

I ignored him and burst through the door which I was not surprised to note had been left slightly ajar. _'Dixie House'_ was a sizeable property and we charged into a large hallway with several doors leading from it and a large staircase ascending to the first floor. The place was almost eerily silent – until just as Bacchus caught me up there was the sound of a door being slammed somewhere.

“Watson!” I yelled again, rushing over to where the sound had come from.

The first room revealed nothing but the second did – a dead body. It was a man in his mid-forties, dressed like the atypical Victorian gentleman except for the handkerchief protruding from his jacket pocket which was clearly a rebel flag. 

“Mr. Lee?” I asked Bacchus. He nodded.

“Poor chap”, he said insincerely. “Someone got to him first.”

“No!” I yelled, rushing over to where a leg could be seen protruding from behind a screen.”

As I had hoped my movements distracted my brother as I quickly checked over my friend, wincing at the red on the floor beneath him. I took several deep breaths and then stood up and glared darkly at Bacchus.

“He will live”, I said sourly. “No thanks to you!”

“Sher....”

I took out my own gun and looked pointedly at my brother, who began to edge away towards the door. 

“You... you would not....”

The first shot caught the frankly horrible standing lamp, so it was not totally wasted. My brother yelped in fear and made it to the door before the second, which was only inches away from his arm. He fled the house, moving faster than I had ever seen him go.

And then I _laughed!_

֍

It was about twenty minutes later. Mr. Lee, Mrs. Kyndley, Watson and I were sat discussing the events of that busy day. The actor friend I had paid to impersonate the dead house owner had been thanked and had departed back to London. The lady assassin did indeed look every inch the Victorian nanny; I would have found it amusing that both the other gentlemen were visibly sitting up straighter had I not been doing exactly the same. 

“A most amusing conceit”, she said sipping at her sherry. “Assassinating an assassin is something new, even for me. Poor Mr. Cleveland will of course be _mortified_ at the direct removal of one of his agents but alas, one cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs.”

I smiled at her use of one of Bacchus' favourite phrases. I would mention that to him later – when I showed him copies of the papers which proved the American government's involvement in the assassination attempt against one of their own citizens. On foreign soil. 

“The American president will be stamping down heavily on his spy agency after they allowed one of their foreign agents to get killed while trying to kill an American abroad”, I agreed, wincing at the red on Watson's shirt even though I knew full well that it was fake blood. “I dare say that there will be a cover up but, Mr. Lee, I am sure my tiresome brother will be letting your countrymen know that any further attempts against your life would be swiftly followed by some most unpleasant revelations in the London papers.”

“And all this with the connivance of our own government”, Mrs. Kyndley agreed. “That brother of yours is a Most Unpleasant Personage, Mr. Holmes. I might even be tempted to offer a discount if you ever get really tired of him.”

Watson opened his mouth to state the obvious but caught my expression and blushed. And yes, I was also tempted but.... why was I objecting again?

“I may also call on that neighbour of yours before I leave”, Mrs. Kyndley said. “He is not much better, I am sorry to say. He was sat in his garden when I passed earlier and, shockingly enough, was wearing only a _vest and shorts!_ We really cannot be having with such behaviour in England!”

“I am grateful to y'all”, Mr. Lee said, his Southern accent clear despite his two decades in England. “You sure they will not try again?”

“I shall also point out to Bacchus that I might mention his mendacity to Mother”, I said. “That will doubtless terrify him even more than the American government! Although I may not see him for a while as he believes I am furious with him over my friend the doctor's terrible injuries.”

“How bad can we make them out to have been?” Watson asked.

Mrs. Kyndley shook her finger reprovingly at him, and he blushed.

֍


End file.
